


Talk of the Town

by izzydragon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Homeless!Castiel, Homelessness, Post Sacrifice, implied prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 10:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzydragon/pseuds/izzydragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The talk of this small town in northern Illinois was, surprisingly, not of flashing lights, of stars falling down from the sky and hitting the muddy earth with naught but a disgruntled whisper. No, not this town. The talk of this town was of one star in particular, of one man. A scruffy, fumbling man with kind eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talk of the Town

**Author's Note:**

> What can i say, homeless!cas inspired me :)  
> -set post s8

The talk of this small town in northern Illinois was, surprisingly, not of flashing lights, of stars falling down from the sky and hitting the muddy earth with naught but a disgruntled whisper. No, not this town. The talk of this town was of one star in particular, of one man. A scruffy, fumbling man with kind eyes. 

Some said that when he looked you right in the eye, you felt it in your very soul. Parents would tell their children to cross the street when they caught sight of him. Old Mrs Maddie who lived nestled in the crook where a crumbling bridge met the damp ground, would tell you how the man would rub her arthritic hands in gentle, soothing circles when it got cold and rained, she would tell you than it all of her years, she’s never seen someone so young look so incredibly old. 

“Somethin’ ‘bout his eyes” she would say, in her static voice.

Word on the street was that the man liked to be called ‘Cas’, but would never let you ask what it was short for. Names can be dangerous, ‘round here.

The man, Cas, had arrived in the small homeless community with an illuminated look in his eyes, as if the memory of some incandescent light were seared into his irises. Now shed of the frayed overcoat (it was a particularly cold night, and little 7 year old Emily and her younger brother were struggling for warmth as it was, and he didn’t really need it anymore, anyway) replaced with a two perpetually damp and threadbare jackets, he appeared more grounded, seemed attached to the ground beneath his feet rather than simply treading over it.

Anyone who knew anything about life out here could tell just by looking at him that he had nothing. Yet, he always seemed to have something to give.

So who’s to say how he gets the money? If Sheila, who often has enough money for one night in a humid motel room per week, sees him emerging from alleyways with a swollen mouth and a vacant expression on particularly harsh nights, then who is she to judge?

“Every person is welcome here, every person appreciated. No matter what demons you’re running from, you’re welcome here”, Cas would recite, softly and warmly whenever someone new and in need stumbled upon their community.

But it was not his warmth, his kindness, or his unknowable yet not impersonal nature that people most liked about Cas. 

It was his stories.

Stories about having dinner with Pharaohs, about bringing the sky to the ground, about swimming in a nonspecific form through a nonspecific place. He talked about the children he’d met, “I think you would have liked Isaac”, he says to Little Emily’s gawking child brother, “you remind me of him”, with a warm smile.

Of course, everyone knew that these stories couldn’t be true, were too unfathomable to be true. Too formulaic, too vague and distant.  
But there was one story he told, one story that brought the light back into his eyes, that brought Cas right into the present.

He would sigh, with a small, sad smile, and he would tell the story.

The story of two beautiful, muddy boys, the most important car in the world, and a flawed angel with a crack in his chassis, whom they loved all the same. 

Of family.

It was unfinished story, a story that perhaps would never be over. Maybe there would always be two boys, a car, and an angel. Maybe there would always be pain and love and unflinching bravery and loyalty and virility and life.

But one thing’s for sure, one fact that Miss Maddie made sure to tell Cas as his story tapered out: there would always be family. 

No matter how far apart, there would always be home.


End file.
